


Anniversary

by turtlesquare



Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anniversary, Depression, Gift Fic, Oneshot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sad, Trauma, a fic written for ghostgods au, a gift fic for them really, brian lives au, jay stays dead, mlm author
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 21:45:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13132854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turtlesquare/pseuds/turtlesquare
Summary: It's been two years and neither know what to do with themselves.





	Anniversary

**Author's Note:**

> A fic written for tumblr user Ghostgods' au (where brian lives and jay stays dead, and brian is mute and the two of them live out of tims car). I meant to write this a while ago buuuut I'm just now getting around to it.

 

2 years.  2 years and it had seemed like a dream; like nothing was real.  Tim couldn’t feel much of anything anymore, not after everything that had happened.  He couldn’t acknowledge anything, or it  _ would _ become real, and, well, he didn’t know how to deal with that.  He had lost his job, and took up side jobs while he chain-smoked and overmedicated himself to attempt and forget about it all.

Brian didn’t talk.  Brian couldn’t talk -- being revived after the fall had left him with some sort of neurological damage, or so Tim assumed, and Brian would write hastily on paper whenever he needed to communicate something.  He wore gloves and never took off his dirty beige hoodie.  But whether or not he was still the hooded man, Tim was unsure.

The operator was gone, but the drawings still continued.  Papers were strewn about the already messy car, scribbles of that symbol and trees and eyes and other things that neither of them could distinguish.  The sketches were everywhere; in the trunk, in the backseat, crumpled and shoved into the glovebox and middle console of the car.  They mixed and blended with the food wrappers and dirty clothes.  

They lived in Tim’s car, parked outside houses, in grocery store lots, in campsites.  They managed to set aside enough money from odd jobs to keep the tank half-full, and to feed themselves.  Brian was always recording.  The camera ran on memory cards so neither had to shell out hundreds of dollars for tapes.  The videos were never uploaded anywhere.

They didn’t talk about the Ark.

Tim kept a gun in the glovebox.

 

Brian woke up by rolling off the back seat where he was laying when Tim slammed on the breaks.  He climbed from his spot on the floor of the car into the passenger seat, brushing the burger wrappers onto the ground.

“Sorry,” was all that Tim said. 

It was dawn, and the route that they were on was awfully familiar.  He pulled into the middle lane, and after waiting for the other cars to pass, turned into the lot and parked.  The windows of the flower shop emitted a dim, yellow light.  Tim got out, and didn’t bother to lock it once Brian was out.  The bell overhead rang as they walked through.  The woman behind the counter flashed them a fake smile as they walked in.

They knew the drill already; Brian went and got a bundle of white lilies while Tim grabbed a single white tulip.  Neither said anything to the other, and the woman behind the counter seemed a little confused as she checked them out.

Once they had paid and left, the were back on the road.  The drive to Rosswood Park was quick; they never slept more than a few miles away.  It was drizzling outside, not heavy enough for Tim to put on a coat, and they walked down the all-too-familiar path.  It wasn’t a path, really, since it was only walked by the two of them.  They reached their destination, a small handmade wooden cross underneath a tree with lowhanging branches.  On the cross was a navy green hat,  _ Jay’s old hat _ , and on the base was an old camcorder and a few polaroid photos in a clear plastic box.  

Brian let Tim pay his respects first.  He crouched down and place the tulip next to the photos, and for the first time in a year, he let the depression engulf him.  The floodgates opened, metaphorically, and he let himself cry.  He could feel a hand on his upper back, and he didn’t push it away.  Brian was kneeling down next to him, having placed down the lilies, and was staring at him as he cried.

After a few minutes, Tim stood back up and stared down at the memorial.  Brian had rose up with him, his hand no longer upon his back.  Instead, he reached to unclench Tim’s hand it slot his fingers between the other’s fingers.  Tim rested his head on Brian’s shoulder as silent sobs racked through his body.  Brian said nothing; he never did.

“I miss him so much.”

Brian nodded, and ran soothing circles over the top of Tim’s hand with his own gloved fingers.  There was an understanding silence between the two, and in that moment, they didn’t need anything else.

**Author's Note:**

> White lilies roughly symbolize innocence and purity.  
> White tulips roughly symbolize forgiveness.


End file.
